


Only

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Only [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Finishes on a lovely very fluffy one though, M/M, One really quite angsty one in there, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 04:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Seven discrete Mystrade drabbles based on the idea of adding the word 'only' in different places to the sentence, "He told him that he loved him".





	Only

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HumsHappily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/gifts).



> This is for the Mystrade Birthday Buddies exchange, and I hope you like it! I have been playing with this idea for a while and I'm so pleased I had the opportunity to pull it together for you. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
> 
> Based on the interesting idea that by adding the word ‘only’ to each position in the following sentence, you create a slightly different meaning: 
> 
> He told him that he loved him.
> 
> Seven unrelated drabbles in which each of these sentences is a Mystrade moment. I liked the challenge of coming up with something short but distinct for each resulting sentence.

  1. **_Only_ he told him that he loved him.**



The words came unplanned, in a rush of affection.

“I love you.”

Mycroft stared in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

Greg’s face was open and calm as he looked into the grey eyes he loved so dearly. “I love you, Mycroft.” The slow blink was one of Mycroft’s stalling tactics; Greg knew him well enough to see the gears whirring behind the impassive face. He waited, knowing patience would be more use to him than haste.

When Mycroft finally spoke, his words were carefully chosen. “Thank you.”

Greg raised one eyebrow, suppressing a smile of affection. “No pressure to reply in kind, gorgeous.” He allowed the smile to touch his eyes, infusing his love with warmth. 

The sound was loud as Mycroft swallowed hard. Greg’s heart swelled as he saw the courage resolve in Mycroft’s stance.

“Only you,” Mycroft said quietly, “have ever told me you love me.” His hand rose to cup Greg’s chin, the long fingers caressing salt and pepper stubble with care.

 

  1. **He _only_ told him that he loved him.**



“What do you have to say, then?” Greg’s voice was harsh. His frustration was irrational, he knew; there was precious little Mycroft could do about his work schedule. It was he who had insisted on their dining together tonight, when Mycroft had warned that the Chinese delegates were fussy and unlikely to be appeased by a token appearance. Greg had stubbornly refused to consider Mycroft’s warning, taking the afternoon off to prepare the menu he’d settled on. When 7pm had come and gone, Greg had drunk the pair of martinis he’d prepared; by 9.30, the ruined meal had been abandoned in favour of Mycroft’s best Scotch.

Now, slumped in his favourite chair, Greg didn’t rise when Mycroft came in. His words were harsher than he’d intended, but he stood by them (well, sat by them). As usual, Mycroft did not rise to the invitation to row; instead he continued his ritual, removing coat, gloves and scarf without comment. Finally, Mycroft’s impassive face turned to Greg. The long, slow beat of Greg’s heart in his ears marked the time; he watched Mycroft’s face soften into empathy, then apology. When his mouth moved, Greg heard the voice in slow motion.

“I love you.”

Greg scowled.

“I love you, Gregory.”

Greg stood, weaving a little, arms crossed.

“I love you.”

When Mycroft’s arms wound around him, Greg melted into him, burying his face into Mycroft’s neck and breathing deeply.

The soft breath ruffled his hair. “I love you.”

 

  1. **He told _only_ him he that he loved him.**



“Lovely photos, aren’t they?”

Greg turned, frowning at the stranger. Although the face was unfamiliar, Greg stretched out his hand automatically to accept the images being offered him. The desire to look at the photos warred with his instinct not to turn away from the shifty looking man.

As he considered this, the other man chuckled crudely. “Don’t hurt yourself making a decision there, copper.” He winked at Greg before weaving his way back through the crowd.

Greg watched him go before dropping his eyes to the photographs. There were seven in total. Each featured Mycroft on the arm of a different man. He was younger than Greg had known him; the fact that none appeared current was cold comfort to his insecure soul. Greg examined Mycroft’s face in each, searching for familiar expressions, quirks he thought of as private. _Intimate moments of their personal life_ , Greg’s mind screamed as he scoured the blurry photos, aching to excuse Mycroft from what he most feared.

Hours later, Greg stumbled home. His misery was acute, his eyes becoming blurrier with each pint; he could no longer focus on the rest of the photos, only Mycroft’s face. As he leaned against the wall, hoping the room would stop spinning, Greg dropped the photos. He scrabbled to pick them up but they slid along the parquet floor away from his clumsy fingers.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice came from somewhere above, the gentle astonishment evident. Greg heard Mycroft moving around, and with the abrupt shift of the drunken perception, he was at Greg’s side, sitting on the hard floor. The susurrus of photos sliding along each other was loud in the quiet room.

“Where did you get these?” Mycroft murmured.

Greg clung to him, breathing the scent he’d thought was only for him. “I thought you never…” he hiccoughed, then sighed. “Did’y’love them?”

“Oh, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was full of sorrow. “These men were…assignments, if you will. Nothing but work, I swear.” He tilted Greg’s chin up, brushing their lips together. “I have told only you that I love you, Gregory.”

 

  1. **He told him _only_ that he loved him.**



“Yeah, well, maybe it’s not enough.”

Greg’s words were loud, and they echoed in the empty carpark. Mycroft simply regarded him, the blank face giving away nothing. Greg could see his knuckles, white as his hand gripped the umbrella. Far more telling, for those who knew him.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied, so quietly the sound barely carried.

“You keep telling me you love me, but it’s not enough!” Greg ground his teeth with frustration as the continued blank look. He knew Mycroft really didn’t understand; why was it always up to him to find words to explain himself when he was so upset? He drew in a deep breath, counted to five…then ten…then he spoke. “You say you love me. And I believe you. I love you too, Mycroft. But a relationship needs more. It needs trust. Desire. Hell, it needs need.”

“I do trust you,” Mycroft replied, his voice guarded.

“Really.” Greg said, the disbelief evident in his tone. “We’ve been together six months and I have yet to see the inside of your flat. Hell, I’ve yet to see the outside of your flat! I have no idea when or if you’re out of the country, or when you might return.” His eyes softened, and he stepped closer as hurt and bewilderment grew in Mycroft’s grey eyes. “I know you want me, Mycroft. I know you call me when you get back. I know how you shake when we haven’t seen each other, how quickly you want to be close to me,” he paused, “and I’ve noticed how you inhale my scent as though you’d almost forgotten what I smell like.”

The blush on Mycroft’s cheeks was flaming now. “Really, Gregory…”

“It’s okay,” Greg said, desperate for him to understand. “Do you understand that? All of that, it’s okay to feel it, but it’s even more okay to say it. I want you to need me, to miss me when you’re gone, to want me so much you come over at 4am straight for the airport and don’t even say hello before you push me up against the wall.” The shaky intake of breath was more than enough feedback. “I want you to trust me, Mycroft.” Greg said quietly. “If you do, show me. Tell me. Please.”

By now Greg was standing right in front of Mycroft, eyes locked on his, practically pleading him.

“I’m not particularly good with emotions,” Mycroft said hesitantly.

“Yeah, I know,” Greg replied, a smile on his face and in his voice.

“I..” Mycroft faltered, then took a deep breath. “I have to fly…out of the country next week. Perhaps you would care to meet me at my flat when I return? I would like…I will need to see you. As soon as possible.”

With a grin, Greg moved in close, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s. “Perfect.”

 

  1. **He told him that _only_ he loved him.**



It had been a late night with a group neither Mycroft nor Greg were overly familiar with. One high school mate, plus his band of buddies and a mid-level gay bar had resulted in more groping than Greg could remember, even when he’d resorted to practically hanging off Mycroft to demonstrate they were both taken. It was a new experience for Mycroft; he’d jumped every time a random hand had landed on his body. By the end of the night, with more beer in them than was really good for their middle-aged bodies, Greg had poured them both in a cab, offering the driver double fare to drive fast and ignore the noise from the backseat.

“No body fluids on the seats and you’ve got a deal,” the bloke had said. Greg had immediately pounced on Mycroft, snogging him for all he was worth. It was messy and not particularly accurate; by the time they reached Mycroft’s building both of them were giggling, horny and covered in saliva. Greg threw some money at the driver then fumbled with Mycroft as Mycroft fumbled with the door, almost falling on him when the door finally gave way.

“All those hands on you,” Greg mumbled, tugging at Mycroft’s belt, dropping to his knees as soon as the fabric was out of the way. “You’re mine,” he said, victory flooding through him at Mycroft’s strangled groan. Greg knew his head was swimming a bit too much to do this properly; he kept having to pull off to breathe deeply, but Mycroft didn’t seem to care. He was groaning sleepily, clutching the coatrack for support.

“Only I love you,” Greg said, returning to his task to find Mycroft’s enthusiasm wilting. Within a minute, the snores from above drifted down to where Greg’s knees were starting to hurt, even through the beer-padding.

“Bloody good thing too,” Greg grumbled, staggering as he lurched into the sitting room, depositing Mycroft on the sofa. “Those other bastards would have left you sleeping on the coat-rack.” 

 

  1. **He told him that he _only_ loved him.**



Sherlock snorted with disgust. “He might love you, Graham, but that’s it.”

Greg stood silently, biting the side of his tongue to keep from saying – or doing – something he’d regret. He needed Sherlock, and Sherlock knew it. It was Greg’s penance for the argument he’d started with Mycroft all those moons ago.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Greg sighed. Knowing he’d have to do this and actually doing it were different things. “Just give it up already, will you? When will he be back?”

“If my brother trusted you, I wouldn’t have to ‘give it up’, as you so delicately put it.”

“I’m not propositioning a blushing virgin, Sherlock!” Greg said impatiently. “Look, your brother’s trip was obviously last minute and I know for a fact he wouldn’t leave without making sure you could get in touch if you needed to.” He ran a hand over his head in frustration. “I just…I need to know he’s safe.”

“Well he trusts me, George, for good reason,” Sherlock retorted. He was clearly enjoying this, the smug look on his face bracketing eyes that darted over Greg’s face, drinking in his discomfort and rising anger.

“He does trust me!” Greg said indignantly. They both knew the words were hollow, but Greg would not retract them.

“He does _not_ ,” Sherlock hissed, all enjoyment suddenly gone from his face. “He might love you, Detective Inspector, but there is no trust, no affection. No emotional connection bar that he cannot control. Why else would he disappear after such an argument without so much as telling you he would be out of the country?”

The truth of his words cut Greg deeply, the anger bleeding out as his soul writhed in pain. Sherlock was right. Mycroft may have trusted him once, may have thought of him with affection, but that time was gone. The love they shared now was strictly physical, gritty and hard, full of resentment and harsh words.

It was more like lust than love, but Greg would take what he could get.

They did not speak other than the harsh gasp of a name at the point of no return. Mycroft’s cars picked up and returned Greg at random intervals, and he did not object to the arrangement.

If he’d been less pushy, less insistent, perhaps he would have more, be more in Mycroft’s life.

As it stood, Sherlock was right.

It was grudging, stripped of trust and want. Fierce and rough, never acknowledge but smouldering under layers of scar tissue and pain.

Mycroft only loved him.

 

  1. **He told him that he loved _only_ him.**



“I don’t love her, Mycroft!”

“You seem fairly adamant about seeing her on Christmas Day.”

“She’s my ex-wife, Mycroft. Emphasis on the _ex_. You do remember the misery she put me through, right?”

“Exactly.”

Greg let out a hiss of irritation. “It’s my daughter’s wedding day. I have no idea why she chose that day, it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, but I can’t change it, and I won’t have to be there every year.” Before Mycroft could open his mouth in protest, Greg stepped in and hugged him tight, feeling the tension in his body. “I know it’s your birthday,” he whispered, the words bringing out the lump in his throat again. “I know your family will allow Christmas to overshadow it, and I know it’s terrible. You have no idea how pissed off I am that Sarah chose this day of all the days in the bloody year to get married. I wanted to steal you away from everyone, take you somewhere special and worship you all day long. Try and make up for all the years of joint presents and parties after New Year’s because everyone’s away. And I’ll do it next year, and the year after if you’ll let me.”

Mycroft was holding him tight by now, his face pressed into Greg’s shoulder. Greg was just starting to worry when Mycroft sighed. “I just wanted to see you, that’s all,” he said, and he must have been upset because it was audible in his voice.

Greg blinked, then stepped back, pulling Mycroft away and looking at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll be stuck with my family, Sherlock and John parading their happiness around and spoiling it even further,” Mycroft said. “And you’ll be all the way in Cardiff at a wedding which you certainly should attend and whose timing you have no control over.”

Greg took a moment to realise what Mycroft had assumed. When he did, the relief was immense. “Is that what you think this Christmas will be like?” he asked carefully.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

“Well in that case, I hope you won’t be too disappointed if I spoil your vision,” Greg asked him, his lips twitching in amusement.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mycroft, I want you to come to Cardiff with me. As my date. To the wedding,” Greg said as clearly as possible. Just to avoid any further confusion, he added, “From December 22nd ‘til at least New Year’s. That’s Sarah’s wedding present, as requested – the family spending time in Cardiff together. Well, not together all the time, she just wants to be able to see us every day for a while since they’ll be moving to bloody Anglesey in January.”

Mycroft was looking at Greg with such a look of astonishment that Greg wondered if he’d accidentally been speaking Greek or something. Which he didn’t speak. But Mycroft probably did.

Focus, Greg, he told himself.

“Family?” Mycroft repeated slowly.

“Well, yeah,” Greg said.

“She mentioned me specifically?” Mycroft asked.

“Um, yes?” Greg replied uncertainly. “I mean, the invite was for you and me, not me and a plus one.”

“And I wouldn’t have to go to my parents’?” Mycroft asked. The question was so reminiscent of Greg’s early adulthood he almost laughed out loud.

“Not for a second, gorgeous,” Greg replied with a grin.

“Well…” Mycroft said, then swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” Greg replied. “I love only you.”


End file.
